Revolution IS the American Way

It's been so long since I've posted anything on the 'ole blog, I almost forgot I had one. I hope my thoughts on the current cultural/political powder keg in which we find ourselves falls on fertile soil.

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"When one man of popularity stands up and tells the truth...he might lose a few dollars, but he's helping millions. But if I kept my mouth shut just because I'm making millions, this ain't doing nothing. I love the flesh and blood of my people more so than I do the money."

-Muhammad Ali

Donald Trump would have NFL and NBA players downplay racial injustices and ignore opportunities to voice their justifiable objections to them from the broad platform each of them has earned, and instead to sit idly by and be quiet--show their masters that they're grateful for the millions of dollars they are "given" to play sports. Step and shuffle, all the way to the White House to shake hands and smile for the photo op. According to him, taking a knee during the national anthem dishonors our country's heritage. Public protest is anti-American. Please note: his current tear started because one of those athletes didn't want to come visit him at the White House.

He's forgetting (or more likely skipped the days at school) where we were taught what our country is actually about--from Plymouth Rock to the Continental Congress, from the Trail of Tears to Standing Rock, from the Northwest Passage to Appomattox, from Pearl Harbor to D-Day, from Kristallnacht to Nuremburg, from Kent State to Occupy Wall Street, from Birmingham Jail to the Freedom Riders, there's never been anything MORE American than pointing out wrongs in an attempt to right them, win or lose. He's forgetting that how hard and how often our flag gets saluted doesn't mean anything, if "the Republic for which it stands" doesn't honor all the people who stand under it--equally.

I've been ashamed to call myself an American for the better part of a year, lest someone mistake me for aligning in any way with my country's current figurehead. This week, I remembered what being an American actually means. I'm relieved to be reminded that a much different precedent was set long before him and that his is not the only standard to which I have to aspire as an American.

I do not admire or support a man who's ideals ignore and marginalize his countrymen in favor of blind, national pride. Today, I kneel with the jocks.

Crime Doesn't Pay

Thanks to Netflix and insomnia, I've been watching enough true crime documentaries lately that I've developed a bit of an obsession with alibis.

 

As I'm sure you already know, an alibi is a timeline surrounding an alleged commission of a crime that would put a suspect someplace other than where the crime was committed. If a suspect can provide that, and has at least one witness or a documented record to back up their story, they're off the hook.

Most people, unless they live/work alone in the wilderness, or unless they did what they are being accused of, usually have no problem coming up with alibis. But that got me to thinking, what about parents of young children?

Call me paranoid if you want, but if you think about it, typical, beleagured parents of young children without regular childcare, can go an entire day without seeing or talking to another soul, other than their children. And frankly, kids don't make good alibis.

Take me for example. I'm alone with my kids all day at least once a week, sometimes for an entire weekend. If, by some unholy sequence of events, I ever became a person of interest in a crime investigation, on those days, I'd have a hard time coming up with a record proving I wasn't where a crime was being committed, nor would I have anyone to corroborate my timeline of where I said I was. My 1 year-old, while effective at nonverbal communication when she wants a graham cracker on a shelf out of her reach, would be useless to me. Screaming and pointing only works to get what SHE wants, not the scapegoat her Mama would need.

My 5-year-old would also be useless. Right now he's busy mastering the days of the week, learning to tell time, and ticking down how many days a week he has to go to kindergarten before he gets a two day break. If you ask him what he did today and in what order, he can't remember. And what he can remember is usually wrong, overstated, or out of order. I'm not gonna be able to count on him to lay out what time of day Mama cut his chicken into bite-size pieces for him only to eat one of those pieces, then throw the rest away. And how's he going to convince a jury of my peers that I fall asleep on the couch five minutes after I put him and his sister down for the night when Daddy is away? Who will buy my story that I spent the day cleaning up after my kids? That won't hold water if anybody takes a look at the place at the end of the day and it looks like a cyclone hit it. Again. Who will believe me that it's impossible to leave the house with mayhem in mind when you spend half the day making people take naps and the other half of it handing them things they can't reach and breaking up their fights.

There'd be no documented record of my whereabouts, because I can't talk on phone without one of them teying to gargle bleach or pushing the other one off of something high. I can't have anybody over, either. My 5-year-old would interrupt every conversation to get attention, and the baby, currently in her stranger danger phase, would cry and beg to be picked up anytime someone who wasn't related to her looked at her longer than 5 seconds.

This tells me very clearly that I am not suited for a life of crime. And if you, too, have young children, hear me say this: neither are you. There you go, mamas and daddies. I just saved you thousands in lawyer fees and a lengthy prison sentence.

 

Stay out of trouble. Good night.

Whenever I Can Fit It In

I know.

It's been more than a month since I did one of these. But, you guys, the month of May was so not my fave. First, I (stupidly, and against my will) turned 40. And that's not even the worst thing that happened last month.

No, I don't want to talk about it.

A couple of good things did happen, like both The Bud and Lady had birthdays, so now I have a five year old and a one year old. A kindergartener and a toddler. *sniff* Work had its good and not-so-good moments. Life keeps tripping by, some days, sorely trying my patience and mental fortitude.

Anyway, that's my list of excuses. What I have for you today is some musing, mingled in with some life bloopers, if you will. Enjoy.😚

• Today, I discovered that I'd been wearing one of my shirts backwards since I bought it six months ago. It fits much better the new way.

• I discovered that a lone (but powerfully effective) dingleberry--yes, it's what you think I mean--got washed and dried in a load of laundry. You know the saying, "One bad apple doesn't spoil the whole bunch,"?

One dingleberry does. It really does.

• The other day, I had the thought that if I could invent a pair of women's underwear that kept in line that tiny front butt that shows up sometime after the 2nd kid, without cutting off circulation to one's outer extremities, but that wasn't so flimsy the undies constantly roll down below said front butt, I'd be a millionaire. Then I realized I'd never get around to fleshing out the idea. No pun intended. I'd get distracted trying to inobtrusively (is it in or un??) roll my current underwear back over my tiny front butt while in line someplace inappropriate. Like Starbucks, H&M, the office, or if I'm honest with myself, anyplace outside my personal bathroom.

• I am completely over post-partum boobs. They were a novelty for a while, but now I just really need my shirts to fit.

• If the newborn is now a year old, can I still call them post-partum boobs?

• My five year old is learning how to deal gracefully with disappointment. I don't have the heart to tell him he'll still be working on that in 35 years. Seems mean.

Monthly Musings: April, 2016

It's a springtime miracle: I'm posting a list of 'Musings' in the month in which I gathered my muse!  Better get crackin' before I forget what I'm thinking about (which happens WAY more than I'm comfortable admitting to you).
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• I spend entirely too much of my daily parenting, lately, teaching my man-cub not to fart in my breathing space. #boyslife

• Currently, I'm not the favorite of either of my children. They want Daddy for just about everything, so why am I still so freaking tired all the time? #littlechildren

• I'm "outgrowing," for lack of a better word, my all-for-the-kids parenting phase. I've started to seek out ways and moments to be away from my children, which isn't all bad. It's kind of refreshing, actually. What it means for you, though, is you really don't want to answer my phone calls or texts right now: I'm probably looking for a sitter. #youbusyonfriday?

• The other day, I was complaining to my mom about The Bud's unwillingness to participate in the $85 soccer camp we (I) signed him up for this Spring. Her answer? "That's sounds like you at his age."

M'kay.

I'll ignore the not-so-subtle retributive glee from my mother and, instead, try to find a bright side in my own parenting future. So he hates rules, right now. There's still a chance he'll turn out alright in the end, right? This will have to be my solace. If we let him live, that is. #only3moreweekstogo #i hate heartsoccer

I Love Being A Fly On the Wall

Conversation overheard, between The Artist and The Bud, just now:

TB: Um, um, Daddy?
TA: Yeah, Bud?
TB: Will you come downstairs and watch Charlie Brown wiff (sic) me?
TA: *sigh* Alright, but just for a minute. I'm watching baseball, ok?

[Walking down the stairs]

TB: Ok, for 15 minutes.
TA: No, for 2 minutes.
TB: Ok, how 'bout for 12 minutes?
TA: How 'bout 30 seconds?
TB: Yeah!

Somebody needs to teach that kid that minutes are longer than seconds. #tricked

"Monthly" Musings: April 2016

° Today, I decided I liked the degree symbol better than a standard bullet point, so all of my muses will be in farenheit...fairenheit. Farenhiet. Ok, Celcius.

° The Bud is still having occasional pooping difficulties, but we've found a great deal of relief for him in thrice-daily doses of prune juice. His beloved 'purple juice' is keeping him as close to regular and pain-free as I've seen him since we started potty training a year and a half ago. Sugar content, bedamned.

° We have relatively laid back kids, but I swear they turn on us when either Mama or Daddy is parenting alone. The little buggers already know about the weakness of zone defense.  #divideandconquer

° I read somewhere that doing a daily crossword puzzle can improve memory in Alzheimer's sufferers, so now I've got 3 games of Words With Friends going on my phone. I'm hoping it works for mamas, too. #cantrememberwhereileftmymemory

° The book, 'Are You My Mother' is 63 pages long, and is currently The Bud's favorite bedtime story, particularly on nights when I'm exhausted and just want him to go to bed, so I can go to bed. And he knows when I skip pages.

Really, P. D. Eastman?

° Speaking of memory loss, the next couple posts will be from my drafts backlog. Apparently in the last six months or so I've been writing stuff but forgetting to publish what I wrote. #whatever

Daddy's Birthday Blues

The pilot died at 4 am.

Who's qualified to fix it?

Daddy's birthday blues.

Pancakes on the menu, again.

Somebody's gotta mix it.

Daddy's birthday blues.

Changing itty girl clothes with giant hands,

Potty training woes and Mama's demands,

These things can weigh pretty heavy on a man.

Daddy's birthday blues.

Long day on the grind, got a beer in mind,

Daddy's birthday blues.

Man, I've been beat up,

Can't wait to put my feet up.

Daddy's birthday blues.

Just settling down,

To smooth out that frown, 

When a tiny voice pipes from the calm,

T-Rex can't battle alone, his little boy moans.

Daddy's birthday blues.

Some time with his girl would do him just fine.

Daddy's birthday blues.
Uncork that wine, babe, it's just after 9.

Daddy's birthday blues.

The candles are lit

Strains of music fill the air

When baby's cry cuts through the bliss.

Hold off on that dance,

Teething killed the romance.

Daddy's birthday blues.

It don't seem this way,

In our busy day-to-day,

When the thanks seem as thin as your patience.

But I see what you do

And I thank God for you

Life with you is the only thing that makes sense.

You get better every year and I love being part of the journey. Here's to another year of adventure. Happy birthday, sweet man! XOXO